


And I Say No, It Isn't Perfect

by define_serenity



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:32:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/define_serenity/pseuds/define_serenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sheets rustle like leaves in the wind, crispy clean and white against his pale skin, a bit too small for two. A hand tightens around his waist, a steady pressure to his hip, one so reassuring the touch alone would be enough, but just the fact that it’s there, that he can feel the cold against his skin …</p>
<p>“Morning, sleepy,” a hum buzzes behind his ear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Say No, It Isn't Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my best girl **[bruisingknees](www.bruisingknees.tumblr.com)** because I owe this show to her and I'm never forgiving her for it : ) 
> 
> Title taken from _Never Gonna Leave This Bed_ by Maroon 5.
> 
> First foray into the _In The Flesh_ fandom, be kind.

He couldn’t say what woke him up.

He opens his eyes to an almost unnatural quiet, the house silent but for the slim grandfather clock in the den downstairs, that somehow echoes through the rooms – it used to keep him up as a child, the tick _tock_ of the pendulum too rhythmic for it not to lure sleep away; he’d tiptoe downstairs and open the case, pause the lever until his mother would start it up again in the morning (it annoyed her as much as Jem and him, but no one ever told dad). After his reassimilation he learned to appreciate it, the drumming heart of a place that felt safe and familiar, imperceptibly replacing the missing beat in his chest (he never touched it again, liked staring at the back and forth, perennial, unending).

The sheets rustle like leaves in the wind, crispy clean and white against his pale skin, a bit too small for two. A hand tightens around his waist, a steady pressure to his hip, one so reassuring the touch alone would be enough, but just the fact that it’s there, that he can feel the cold against his skin …

“Morning, sleepy,” a hum buzzes behind his ear.

“Oh, get off.”

He bats at the hand (greeted by a wholesome laugh), but grabs around it, wrapping the arm attached to it closer around his middle. He can’t feel all of it, his chest’s still mostly numb, like his legs and upper arms, but the scars on his arms, his nose and cheeks and the spots behind his ears, unsurprisingly all the spots Simon tends to, they’ve come back to life in ways he never could have imagined.

His fingertips were first (not Simon’s, not yet, Simon’s convinced, “not ever, Kieren Walker, world’s got many wonders but not that many”, but he knows better, sees the love in Simon’s eyes clear as anyone, even if the big lug won’t admit to it.), then his lips, God, his lips.

(He thought the pressure was enough, fooled himself that the weight of a thick comforter could replace the squeeze of a hug; not Jem’s or his mom’s or his dad’s, not even Amy’s. But Rick’s; they could replace Rick’s.)

First time he kissed Simon his skin had long since forgotten the mere idea of a gentle touch, but the cruelty of the world proved again to be too much and instead of self-destructing he forced something beautiful – and Simon, his Simon, so solitarily strong, spouting words that inspired, that awoke courage in him that stifled his anxiety; he had to get that reassurance, that foolish pressure, feel that force of nature pass through him so he pulled him close _close_ close.

“You ever consider you weren’t meant to die?” Simon asked him a few weeks ago; they sat out by a campfire that didn’t provide them any warmth (“It’s the thought that counts, handsome!” Amy would’ve said.) and Simon wrapped his arms around him – there was no one around, except maybe Gary or Dean out on patrol, but they wouldn’t bother them.

“You mean _we_ weren’t meant to die,” he said, flames reaching higher, devouring, licking along the firewood.

Simon’s nose teased at his temple, a first hint of perception creeping back into his nerve endings. “I meant you,” he grumbled, the way he’d grown to love and adore, and pressed his lips to his forehead.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snorted, but sunk deeper into the promise of Simon’s oversized coat (the warmth vaguely reminiscent of a previous life, but not secreted away in a cave where others wouldn’t see) and pondered the question as silence set between them.

He didn’t like the thought of being special. Amy, maybe, his BDFF so full of life, so _alive again_. Philip told him about her last day, about the rain and the cold, about her sense of taste renewed, _about her heart_. Amy was special, the first among them to escape their un-dead state. There was a certain poetry to that, he decided, an artistry coded into her genes because she gleamed and shone brighter than anyone – it was never like that for him, not before, not now, really, but he tries to smile and goof around if only to honour the great Amy Dyer.

Simon pushes a kiss to the side of his face. “What’s on your mind?”

He turns with some difficulty – the bed’s too small to hold them both but they keep challenging its dimensions; (They usually stay at the bungalow, Simon has it all to himself and he practically lives there, far from any prying eyes and judgmental neighbours, but this weekend they had the house to themselves) half the reason they even chance getting caught is the size of his bed, the lack of space between their bodies the path of least resistance.

First time he kissed Simon, he never really let go again.

“Promise you won’t laugh.”

Simon drawls a crooked grin, somewhere between ‘not a chance, but I’ll do my best’ and his ‘anything for you’ one, “Cross my heart.”

He ponders his own thoughts some more, fingertips tracing along Simon’s collarbone, the tick _tock_ of the clock downstairs a serene companion – what he’s about to say sounds cheesy at best (Simon gobbles that up like a child allowed too much candy) but ever since Simon tumbled into his life he’s had trouble breathing – ironically – like his chest’s on fire and it’s sucked out all the oxygen, and if he weren’t dead already he’d dread the consequences.

So he looks into Simon’s (perennial, unending) eyes. “You think some people need to come back to life to really start living?”

Simon smiles, nothing in between the sentiment and the way his eyes capture every inch of his face. “Not so ridiculous, after all.”

Downstairs, the large grandfather clock chimes, three times, and the sheets on his tiny ( _tiny tiny_ ) bed get chucked to the floor – he curls into Simon’s body (something it was meant to do all along), his heels dragging down Simon’s calves where their legs intertwine, Simon’s hands all but enveloping his waist and suddenly they have all the room they need, spun together like twine on a spindle. Simon’s lips brush his, and they lose themselves, their hearts, their minds, their bodies.

Every time he kisses Simon, there’s few things that can stop him.  

(Because his lips, God, his lips.)

 

 

 

**\- FIN -**

 


End file.
